My Heart, My Home
by fakeasain56
Summary: Two funerals. One Hobbit. One Elven. A heart being put to rest.


Everyone always expected him to be able to do everything. To be the bearer of bad news, to be the grim old man that wasn't Human, wasn't Elven, wasn't Dwarf but insanely powerful. They expected him to save everyone. And Gandalf… couldn't.

He could not take the gift of death away from the races. He wasn't allowed to call back the soul from its wandering paths back to its body. And while the others may not exactly blame him for the deaths… they did hold a grain of resentment that he couldn't of saved them.

_The Elves stood in solemn rows, not a tear escaping as they bore the bodies across the leaf-carpeted forest ground. Gandalf stood on a little knoll, a short distance away, leaning heavily on his staff._

_Elrond stared at him, before turning away, looking down at the still, cloth wrapped body of the dead elf. An attack of orcs had caught them off guard, and one elf had paid the price. A well-beloved elf, judging by the solemn songs being sung._

_No one moved closer to Gandalf. After all, he had seen more of these deaths, seen more then they could ever hope to understand. Even the elves had to admit that he had seen more then they had, despite their long years of being alive._

_Gandalf's head bowed, but he didn't cry either in the company of the singing elves._

_They buried the body beneath a tree, wrapping roots around the elf's body, too forever keep it preserved._

_And, just as solemnly as they had come, they dispersed._

Gandalf came over the hill, walking slowly, the memory of the funeral still close to his heart. It weighed heavily on him- the whispers of the elves from before about how young he was, how he had never seen the land to the West, how all he had known were times of darkness and fear.

Was there blame in those words? Gandalf hadn't listened closely enough to know. He didn't want to know.

A hobbit came trundling by, carrying a basket. A black hankerchief was tied around his head- a sign of one going to a funeral. Gandalf paused, stricken by a double dose of grief. Who had died?

"On your way to the funeral?" The hobbit asked politely, hitching their basket further up their shoulder.

"I wasn't aware there was to be one. Who passed on?" Gandlaf questioned gently.

Sorrow creased the wrinkles of the Hobbit's eyes. "Baggins. Bingo Baggins."

A sigh of relief escaped him before he could quite stop it. He was rather fond of the Tooks, after all of their services rendered. The Baggins though were respectable, and would always stop to say a good word to Gandalf.

Then, a frown grew as Gandalf stared down at the little Hobbit. "You are a Baggins as well, are you not?"

A smile appeared on the hobbits face as he nodded. "Bungo Baggins. Bingo was my brother. He did so enjoy your fireworks, as did I."

A smile graced Gandalf's face as he nodded. "I am sorry for your loss."

"Don't be too sorry- he was twenty years older then me, and died from eating too much." Bungo laughed, even if it came out a bit fogged with sorrow. "His wife Chica and kids are all going to be quite alright. The Proudfoot's, my sister Linda, promised to take care of them."

"Ahhh, I see."

_Dark whispers of mourning, no smiles. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark winds._

The sun shone brightly, as birds twittered. Bungo lifted the basket in his arms. "Are you coming to the funeral? I hope that you do- we could always use another story at the table."

A hobbit's life revolved around food. Funerals were no different. The mourning and weeping was done while the body was buried, and then there would be a meal afterwards, in which life was celebrated. At the head of the table would be an empty seat with a plate filled with the best food. It was a sitting place for the dead, untouched until the next day.

Gandalf hesitated, trying to remember Bingo Baggins. There were so many names and faces that after all of the years, they melded together. Bungo, watching him, smiled as he shook his head. "Don't think too hard. We were just two lads out of a crowd. You don't have to have any stories."

Gandalf had no stories of Bingo Baggins he could share. He did for the elf. But no one wished to hear the stories he had.

Gandalf found himself watching the Hobbits unabashedly weep over the grave (_not a tear escaped) _before heading off a short distance away to unpack the food. It was a bit of an unusual instance- Chica had insisted that they eat outside on Bungo's favorite hill. She was still sniffling as she dished out his favorite pie, placing it next to the plate.

Bungo stood, taking a deep breath to launch into the first story.

_Songs rose up in lament, telling of how he had felled five orc's before the first arrow him. Three more he had fought, giving time for his companions to prepare for the attack before the second arrow felled him._

"I don't suppose I've ever told you all of the time when Bungo got his hand stuck inside the privy and it took us five hours to unstick him, did we?" Without further ado he began to describe masterfully of the long, painful, amazingly hilarious process of unsticking his rather big brothers hand from the privy.

Chica was smiling unabashedly through her tears by the end, as her two younger children giggled at the rather embaressing tale that Bungo had told of their father. Another hobbit stood up, a young woman this time. "I got a tale that will make you howl in laughter about that brother of mine!"

_Elrond slowly approached Gandalf, long after the funeral. "Did you know him?"_

_Gandalf knew him as the little boy that had run and played and tugged on his beard. Gandalf knew him as the young child that had painstakingly came to him with questions about ancient battles and listened with wide eyes as Gandalf told him of what his very eyes had seen._

_But it would not be enough for the elves. "Not really."_

"Did you know him?" A small hobbit lass asked.

Gandalf smiled. "I built him a few fireworks once and nearly had my beard set on fire." The hobbit lass giggled, nodding.

"So you did know him!"

"I suppose I did."

"Oh good." The lass patted his knee. "I'm sure that he would love to see your fireworks one last time." She looked at him with huge, pleading eyes. "I would too."

Gandalf laughed quietly, as he reached into his robe for his pipe. A packet of some really good weed was being passed around, and while Gandalf didn't have any fireworks, there were some smoke figures he could make.

It was harmless magic, the kind that he was actually allowed to use.

_"Can't you use magic?"_

_"I can't, it can't be used in this situation."_

_"Then what use are you?"_

"Oooh, are you magic?" Wide eyes watched the smoke ship sail through several smoke rings before vanishing. "Do you use magic to fight or anything?"

Gandalf frowned, "I try not to use magic to fight."

The Lass nodded, "Good. Because it looks really too pretty to be off getting dirty and all."

The lass hadn't seen a real battle her entire life, but the words warmed Gandalf's heart. She skipped off merrily, her questions answered. A second later, Bungo slid into the spot she left vacant. "So then, is this your first funeral?"

"No."

Bungo nodded, and left it at that, a companionable silence slowly developing. Gandalf let a smoke dragon take to the sky, with Bungo's eyes following it. The tales were getting rather rowdy now, as ale flowed freely.

_The elves left as silently as they had come, unable to bear looking at each other. Instead they turned inwards, to their own inner core. Gandalf simply wished he had someone to talk too._

He turned his feet to the Shire.

Bungo nodded at Gandalf, "You don't seem to be here for Bingo."

"Oh?"

"That's why I asked if it was your first funeral."

Gandalf hesitated, before admitting, "My first Hobbit funeral in awhile." The little peoples freely flowing emotions allowed _Gandalf _to mourn. Mourn perhaps not the hobbit, but the elf who had died.

Bungo nodded. "I hope you find peace."

Gandalf thought about it, his heart more at rest here, then when he had been at the Elves funeral. "You are a wise hobbit Bungo Baggins."

Bungo blushed slightly as his head ducked. "Not all that amazing. Just a humble builder really. I'm working on Bag-End, and putting down some barrels of wine for my descendents to enjoy. Nothing much really-"

"BUNGO! BUNGO!"

There was a ripple from the other side as a hobbit lass, as old as Bungo, came through the party. Her frock was covered in splatters of mud, and she was holding a basket as well. "Oh Bungo, sorry that I'm late!"

"Belladonna! What are you doing here?" Bungo looked at her, surprised. He hastened to her side, abandoning his pipe to help settle the basket down and pass out the food. Gandalf stared in surprise at the Took woman.

She had to be Took. No doubt about it. But the Baggins seemed far more peaceful to be of interest to the Tooks... "I came here to make sure that you were okay."

Bungo sighed. "I miss him." It was said matter of factly. "But life goes on."

_The songs begging for life to pause just a moment, to savor the moment, for something to remain unchanged-_

"Anyways, I hope you didn't travel here nonstop. It wasn't so important-"

"It's your brother Bungo. He is important to you, don't you dare lie." Belladonna pulled him down in a fierce hug, ignoring the proper Baggins gasps of surprise. Bungo hesitated, his proper Baggins battling against his own instincts, before he wrapped his arms back around her in a fierce hug. Silently he began to cry into her shoulder.

Belladonna didn't mind the sniffles, just holding him close as he mourned his brother. She didn't berate him, nor did anyone. The stories merely started up again, unsubdued despite the sobbing.

A proper Baggins, and a wild Took.

Gandalf smiled at the sight of life moving on, as he blew a ship sailing west into the air.


End file.
